


Shore Leave

by DelightfulExcess (SevereStorms)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Belly Kink, Body Worship, Chubby stucky, Food Kink, Kink Meme, M/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Content, Weight Gain, chubby Steve Rogers, chubby bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-27 03:46:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5032525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevereStorms/pseuds/DelightfulExcess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stuff I wrote for the 20 Days of Chub Kink Challenge over at iwritetheweirdstuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unintentional Weight Gain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mwestbelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwestbelle/gifts).



“You’re ordering me to take a vacation?” Steve asks, looking across the desk at Director Fury, who’s already starting to look exasperated.

Fury leaned forward over his desk, his one eye gleaming in the overhead fluorescents. “Some of the personnel on this carrier are Navy. They’re competitive, and you’re the ultimate representative of their primary athletic rivals. Having you on deck running every morning at 05:00 makes them feel like _they_ have to wake up and hit the deck at 05:00, and then _I_ wake up at 05:00 because it sounds like a herd of damn elephants is buck dancing five feet over my head. I do not like to wake up at 05:00, soldier. We’re stuck in port until the repairs are complete, so yes, I’m ordering you to take some PTO.”

Now that he mentions it, Fury does look a little tired. “But-”

“Get off my goddamn ship and don’t come back for at least thirty days,” Fury said, pointing to the door. Steve looks at him for a long moment, considers further protestation, but he can see from the steely look in Fury’s eye that he’s brooking no objections. He stands and turns to go.

“And take Barnes with you,” the director adds, as Steve closes the hatch.

Steve heads for his berth, stepping carefully over the bulkheads as he makes his way down the long hall. He’s just removed and neatly folded his uniform and is pulling on some civilian clothes when Bucky swings the hatch open and steps into the room.

“I’ve been ordered off the ship,” he says, then, glancing up at Steve, taking in the non-standard issue sweater he’s pulling over his head, he smiles. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh,’” Steve said, taking a seat on the lower bunk so Bucky has enough room to open his footlocker and rifle through it in search of something to wear. “I guess we’re both going to be taking in the sights of...where are we again?”

“Naples.”

“Right. I was here before. USO Tour, 1943.” The memory is a bitter one, and he sighs, leaning his elbows onto his forearms and staring down at the floor.

Bucky tries to remember if he’s ever been to Italy before, can’t, and smiles over at Steve. “Great, you can show me around, then,” he says. “Come on, it'll be fun.”

_________

The thing about Italy, Steve soon learns, is the food. It’s inescapable, spilling out of bistros and cafes onto tippy little iron tables; sold out of aluminum-skinned trailers near museums and city parks, present in the hands of tourists who fill their eyes with sights and their mouths with panini and pizza and panzerotti wrapped in waxed paper.

He and Bucky try all of it. His favorite is sold out of a panel truck almost as old as he is that turns up near the Piazza Garibaldi every day around lunchtime. Panino covered with lard and filled with porchetta, candy shallot, fresh tomato, and fried bacon rind. Even if they’ve just eaten somewhere else, he buys a couple panini from the vendor, one for now and one for later.

Food is the main attraction everywhere they go, and the people who provide it are delighted by their ample appetites. During a three-day tour of the farmland outside the city, the chefs who serve the food and wine at each location seem to revel in the opportunity to feed them. And feed them, and feed them.

Sitting at the rustic wooden table at the final such destination, watching as the hostess presents them with yet another tray containing prosciutto and sausages made from the meat of a wild boar, a variety of flavorful, crumbling cheeses, and more dishes of herbed, handmade pasta, Steve places a hand over his belly in defeat. “I can’t,” he groans. “I really, really can’t.”

“Time to man up, Rogers,” Bucky tells him, heaping his plate with food, even though he’s still chewing something from the previous platter. He stares down at his plate thoughtfully for a few seconds, then looks down at himself, grins at Steve and unfastens his belt, sighing with relief as his belly expands toward his lap.

Steve has to tear his eyes away from the sight of Bucky's overfull belly, and he blushes furiously as he fills his own plate, knowing it’ll be seen as rude if he doesn’t at least make a token foray into this latest offering. He sips his wine, glancing around the room to ensure that nobody’s paying attention, and loosens his own belt. The relief is enormous, although he’s filled with dismay at how big his full, distended gut looks now that it’s got some space to show off.

By morning, though, his metabolism has been at work and he’s less bloated. His stomach rumbles as he gets dressed, and he can’t help but notice that his belly is starting to have a very different relationship with his belt buckle than it did a week or so ago.

The following week, they join a tour that goes to Rome. The food is different, but the portions are similarly large, and here they are frequently bombarded with desserts, some familiar - gelato, cannoli - and others delightfully new. There’s a yeast-sweet brioche stuffed with mascarpone and dark chocolate cream, crunchy cookies redolent of amaretto and drizzled with liquor-rich chocolate, a brisk and silky lemon ricotta pie, creamy, fresh panna cotta with tart raspberries and chocolate sauce.

They decide to top off their week in Rome with an epic dinner out, and Bucky meets Steve in the lobby of the hotel smiling eagerly in anticipation. “This should be fun,” he says, one hand going to his middle in an unconscious gesture that draws Steve’s eye. His belly bows out over the waistband of his charcoal wool trousers, and the white cotton of his shirt is drawn tight over the thickest part of his midsection. Bucky notices him noticing, but he’s still smiling when Steve looks up again. “Hey, we’re on vacation,” he says, giving his belly a gentle pat. “Something tells me we’ll have plenty of opportunities to burn it off, right?”

“True,” Steve says, although as they exit into the crowded plaza outside, Steve’s hand goes to his own stomach. He’s two notches farther out on his belt already, and even with this concession, his belly is leaning hard against the leather, tipping it diagonally outward. He tugs his sweater down self-consciously and hurries to catch up with Bucky.

They’re served bread and oil, wide flat bowls of steaming seafood soup, an assortment of fritti, and already Steve is starting to feel like he’s eaten enough, but the food just keeps coming, plates vanishing on his left side and new dishes appearing on his right, so it’s hard to keep track of everything he’s eaten.

Steve guesses they’re at the fifth course when they get a little break, lemon sorbet in dainty porcelain cups the size of cordial glasses, and he lets out a deep, gusty breath as the server disappears back into the kitchen and doesn’t immediately come back.

“Jesus, Buck,” he says, shoving his chair back so he can lean away from the table. “I’ve never been this full in my life.”

“Me neither,” Bucky says happily, one hand resting on his full stomach. “Man, this is amazing. I wish I lived here. If I live long enough to retire…”

“Guys like us don’t retire,” Steve says, smiling to soften the remark.

Bucky scowls at him and holds up one finger as he digs a fist into his gut and burps softly. “Do not spoil the fantasy, Steve Rogers. Besides, I bet you’d have said men like us don’t take vacations, either, but here we are.” He gestures around them at the beautiful city, the balmy night air, the whole amazing spectacle, and Steve has to concede the point.

“You’re right,” he says. “So tell me all about this retirement plan.” They finish the lemon sorbet, laughing and arguing about which little slice of Italian countryside was the most beautiful, which culinary adventure was the most memorable, and hardly even notice as the sorbet dishes vanish to be replaced by bowls of pasta, then plates of salad and roasted vegetables. The meal finally begins to wind down as small plates of fruit and cheese are placed on the table before them, along with two steaming demitasses of espresso, each with a creamy head the color of burnt sugar.

But then dessert arrives. “Zuppa Inglese,” the server says, smiling, and both men stare as two decadent-looking desserts are placed before them. 

“Did that waiter just say English Soup?” Bucky asks, eyeing the confection laid out before him.

“Zuppa Inglese...it’s like an icebox cake, or a trifle,” Steve answers. “Ladyfingers soaked in herbal liqueur, layered with egg custard and chocolate cream.”

“God,” Bucky groans, leaning back in his chair. “The mind is willing, but the flesh is weak.”

Steve couldn’t agree more, but they manage it, even if it takes almost a half hour for them to finish the entire thing. When the meal finally ends, Steve’s achingly full belly presses uncomfortably against the waistband of his pants and he’s not sure he’s going to be able to get up until he actually does, leaning heavily on the back of his chair, rising belly first as if he were pregnant instead of merely full.

They stagger back to the hotel, Steve slipping one hand surreptitiously under his belly to keep it from sloshing around too much. When he finally makes it back to his room, he flops backward onto the bed, sinking into the soft mattress, and reaches down to unbuckle his belt and flip open his fly. His belly still rounds upward, even now that he’s lying flat on his back. He strokes a hand over it, feeling how firm and full, how distended by his enormous dinner it is. There’s a hint of softness there, near his navel, just a little give where previously there was none. He unbuttons his shirt, letting his belly expand even further, gurgling a little as it tries to work its way through the lavish amount of food he’s just stuffed into it. 

The noises are reassuring; he falls asleep listening to them.

_________

A few days later when they sit down at a cafe outside the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, Steve feels his belly squish over the top of his chinos as he sits down. He slides his thumb along the too-tight waistband, shoving it down a little to give himself some much needed room to breathe. He promises he'll eat a modest lunch, but they linger in the cafe for an hour, and the server replenishes the breadbasket and the fried appetizers so many times Steve loses count. 

When they get back to the hotel, he checks himself in the mirror over the dresser, turning sideways and cupping the roundness pushing out the front of his shirt. It's just that he had a big lunch, he decides, as he lays down to nap while he allows his body to digest. He'll go easy at dinner.

________

When he arrives in the lobby to meet Bucky for dinner, he notes that his friend is also looking a bit more robust than usual. His shirt is taut over a slight paunch, the button that holds the tightest part closed pulls creases in the fabric, and there’s a small gap in the placket that almost shows skin. Steve isn’t sure why, but he can’t stop looking at it, and his heart trips a little more quickly as they enjoy another sprawling, leisurely meal.

Bucky eats like he hasn’t seen food in months, consuming huge portions of pasta and delicate breaded filets with no apparent concerns about the ever-tightening fabric at his waist. Between the fourth and fifth courses, Bucky reaches down and unfastens the top button of his pants, allowing his full belly to bump out plumply into his lap. Steve’s heart leaps into his throat.

“Jesus, Buck, you can’t do that here, if you want to get undressed we should just take the rest to go,” he whispers, trying to sound scandalized, but he feels a flush burning high on his cheeks. 

“Relax, Rogers, nobody’s going to notice,” he says lazily, tugging his now even tighter shirt down, accomplishing nothing other than making his full belly jiggle…

…and sending a jolt down Steve’s spine, straight to his groin. He twitches a little with the force of it, his lips part in surprise, and it’s only with a conscious effort that he drags his eyes away from the sight of Bucky’s enormously stuffed gut.

It’s an hour later when they walk – or really, if he’s being honest with himself, _waddle_ \- back to the hotel. 

_____

Bucky comes to fetch Steve for breakfast the next day, only to find him sitting on the bed, staring at his uniform – not the costume, just his regular workaday army service uniform, consisting of neatly pressed trousers and shirt – laid out on the bedspread beside him.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, seeing the look on Steve’s face.

“We have to be back on the carrier in a little less than two weeks,” Steve says slowly.

“Yeah?”

“Back in uniform,” Steve says. “And I’m…” he trails off, rising to his feet. He’s wearing one of the fluffy white hotel bathrobes, and he rests a hand on his middle, glancing over at Bucky, clearly embarrassed. “I’m a little worried it’s not going to fit.”

Bucky gives him a long, slow, up-and-down look, eyes lingering around his midsection, which looks even rounder than it really is beneath the thick terrycloth of the robe. Steve’s belly juts out from his stacked chest, the narrow belt fastened not around the waist, but below the arc of his gut. Steve can’t help but notice the blush rising on Bucky’s cheeks.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Bucky says, “I think I overdid it, too.” He holds open his jacket to reveal his too-tight tee shirt stretched to its limits to accommodate his girth. His belly overtops the waistband of his jeans, and Steve can see that his belt has been let out to the second-to-last notch.

Steve opens his mouth to reply but no words come out. Bucky’s belly is beckoningly round, inviting the exploration of palms and fingers, promising to be soft and delicious to the touch. 

And it’s incredibly hot. It’s the hottest goddamn thing he’s ever seen. 

His eyes meet Bucky’s and they stare at one another for a long time, some kind of silent communication crackling in the air between them. 

“Steve…” Bucky says, taking a step closer even as Steve says, “Bucky, I-“

And then there’s a brisk rap on the door, and the door handle jiggles as a lightly accented voice calls, “Housekeeping!”

Steve pulls the bathrobe more tightly around himself as two uniformed maids shove a cart full of towels and cleaning products into the room.

“I’ll see you downstairs,” Bucky says, and with a single glance over his shoulder, he disappears into the hallway.

Steve stares regretfully after him, then stands and replaces the uniform on its hanger. There’s really no need to worry about it just yet, he tells himself. There’s still plenty of time before he has to report for duty.


	2. Being in Denial About Weight Gain

After a few hours of being up and about, Steve is pretty sure that his waistline is returning to normal. The added bulk was just due to the volume of food, he reasons. He normally eats for function rather than enjoyment; his routine consists of protein shakes, bars and gels, occasionally an egg white omelet or a few chicken breasts and some broccoli, not the heavy, substantial meals he’s been consuming during his break. The panic dissipates, and he breathes a sigh of relief. It’s not like he’s getting fat; that probably isn’t even possible. Wasn’t there something about the serum that optimized his bodyfat percentage anyway? He feels almost positive he remembers something like that.

He glances at the uniform where it’s hanging in the hotel closet. It’s only been a few weeks. He has plenty of time to burn off the excesses of what is, after all, his first vacation in more than seventy years. Even though he feels rudderless in the absence of his usual regimented routine, he’s determined to enjoy the time off, if only for Bucky’s sake.

So when Bucky shows him the brochure for the train tour across the Alps to Germany, he doesn’t hesitate. “Let’s go,” he says.

What he doesn’t realize, until the first stop in Bologna, is that it’s not just a tour, it’s a _culinary_ tour.

“And we’ll get to Munich just in time for Oktoberfest,” Bucky says, around a mouthful of exceptionally delicious _tortellini alla mortadella_.

“So the train stops in Modena, Verona, Trento, Innsbruck…” Steve looked at the list. “And we’re having meals at all these places?”

“Yup,” Bucky says happily.

“It’s an eight-hour train ride,” Steve says cautiously. “Doesn’t that seem…excessive?”

“We’re staying overnight in Trento,” Bucky says defensively. “What, are you afraid you won’t be able to keep up?” He sits back in his chair, and the slight curve of his stomach rounds out a bit, enough that he can drape a hand over it.

Steve studies Bucky’s face cautiously. Something had flared between them that morning, and as he lets his eyes dip surreptitiously down to Bucky’s hand, resting on top of his ever-increasing abdomen, he feels it flicker to life again, but Bucky hasn’t said anything, and he’s starting to think that maybe the attraction - for that’s what it is, if he’s being honest with himself - is one-sided.

“I think that sounds fine,” he says, digging into his own meal.

On the train again, as he puts the finishing touches on a few of the sketches he made at the Accademia Gallery in Florence, Steve tries to let his mind relax, to unspool the complicated cocktail of feelings wreaking havoc with his brain. Ever since he tracked Bucky down after their violent showdown on the helicarrier, he's been balancing a variety of fears with all the hope he could muster. He’d felt desperately afraid that he might not find Bucky again until it was too late. Or, if he did find him again, he’d feared his oldest friend might simply be beyond help.

And now, here they are, taking a culinary tour like a couple of tourists.

“Penny for’em,” Bucky says, and Steve glances over at him, smiling. He almost reaches for Bucky’s hand, but then remembers that this isn’t really something men do, and looks away. 

“What do you think they’ll serve for dinner?” he asks.

______________

 

By the time Oktoberfest is over, Steve thinks he might never need to eat again in his life. They end up staying in Munich for nearly the entire remainder of their vacation, and everywhere they go, they’re confronted with heavy German food in massive portions. Steve sneaks out to do a little shopping one afternoon, and buys a few pairs of jeans in larger sizes. It’s not that he’s actually putting on weight; he tells himself; it’s just that they’re eating so much, all the time. He’s sure he’ll snap back into shape once he gets back to the carrier and the unappetizing galley food. But for now...he’s on vacation, there’s no point in depriving himself.

“It’s like they’re terrified of being hungry,” Steve says, awestruck by the number and variety of the food vendors littered everywhere; not only at the fairgrounds, but in regular locations throughout the city. Everywhere they go, there are pretzels, doughnuts, kebabs, sausages, french fries, everything covered in cheese or laden with sugar. And Steve is glad of it, because as long as his mouth is full, he can’t say something to Bucky that might give away his growing attraction.

They splurge on their last night out, eating with a group of American soldiers from the nearest Army base, and finally stagger back to their hotel after midnight, nearly incapacitated under the weight of their overindulgence. 

Steve’s room is on the first floor, and Bucky’s is on the fifth. Bucky pauses by the stairs and looks pleadingly at Steve. “How big is your bed?” he asks.

“It’s a king,” Steve says. “Big.” He glances at Bucky, sees the expression on his face, and smiles. “Well, come on in,” he says, holding the door open. 

As soon as they’ve shut the door, Bucky collapses backward onto the bed, popping open his pants button with an enormous sigh of relief. His belly mounds out before him, huge and round. His t-shirt provides adequate coverage while he’s standing, but now that he’s lying flat on his back, Steve can see the full undercurve, the little trail of dark hair running down from a point below his navel to the straining waistband of his jeans. It makes him feel breathless.

“I’m going to need to go shopping again,” Bucky says, glancing down at his gut. “And I just went shopping last week. Jesus.”

“Nah, you’ll be fine once we’re back on duty,” Steve says. “It’s just so much food, all at once.”

“Hmm,” Bucky says, noncommittally. 

Steve walks by the dresser mirror without consulting it; he needs no confirmation of his own overfed condition, but he’s sure he’ll snap back to form in no time. He rifles through his duffel bag, locates a pair of sweats, and slips out of his too-tight jeans. He pulls the sweats up to his hips, not bothering to draw the string tight, since it seems to be unnecessary.

He winces as he lowers himself to the bed, his fullness making it difficult to breathe or bend. He promises himself he’ll return to his usual diet tomorrow, and drifts off to sleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

______________

Steve drifts slowly back toward consciousness, aware only of the softness that seems to be everywhere. The mattress beneath him is soft. The light he can see faintly through his half-lifted lashes is soft. The coverlet he’s pulled over himself is soft. His hand is resting on something soft, too; he flexes his fingers, encountering warm, soft flesh beneath a thin layer of cotton. 

He freezes, eyes flying open. He’s rolled over onto one side, arm outstretched, hand resting on Bucky’s still-slightly bloated belly. And now he realizes that there is one thing in his immediate sphere of awareness that isn’t soft, the familiar but unfulfillable signals of want trilling from his cock up though his nerves and spine. 

He tries to pull his hand away, but Bucky catches it, holds it in place.

“I - I didn’t know you were awake,” Steve stammers, blushing furiously and squirming to conceal his rising erection, but Bucky just lets out a sleepy hum and pats his hand.

“Feels good,” he says muzzily. “Don’t stop.”

Steve’s throat goes dry and heat rises from his chest to his face. He doesn’t seem to be able to move until Bucky gently guides his hand over the little slope of his stomach, once, then twice. Steve, heart pounding, continues to stroke the unusually ample surface of Bucky’s abdomen until Bucky rolls sleepily over and touches a hand gently to his Steve’s midsection. Steve practically leaps backward from the light touch.

“You don’t want me to - ?”

“No - no, I’m fine,” Steve says, although, now that he’s really thinking about it, it sounds nice. Wonderful, actually. 

“You sure?” Bucky smiles a wide, lovely smile, easy and untroubled, and Steve can’t help but smile back, it’s so good to see him this way, at ease in mind and body. Bucky leans forward then, cupping Steve’s chin in his hands, and kisses him on the mouth. 

The kiss is gentle and just like nearly everything else this morning, soft, but it ignites a long fuse that sizzles down the gentle curve of Steve’s spine directly to his suddenly aching cock. Steve moans his agonized desire into Bucky’s mouth, and then hands are pulling, legs tangling, hips locked together. Bucky must have shed his jeans at some point during the night; Steve can feel the hot hard shape of him right through the thin fabric of his boxers. Their motions are urgent and clumsy, they grope frantically at each other, Steve is aware of Bucky’s hands sliding along his sides, fingers gripping his ass to pull them roughly together, again and again. 

His own hands slide through Bucky’s tousled hair, down his chest, over the endearingly chubby curve of his belly, and Steve nearly comes just from that. He wraps his arms around Bucky’s back and thrusts against his hip, wanting more than the slightly muffled friction but incapable of waiting any longer. He bites Bucky’s lip, and all he can hear is their shared ragged breathing, somehow happening in concert even as their bodies are moving in frenetic, desperate thrusts. 

“Oh _god_ oh god so _good_ ,” Bucky whispers, voice hoarse and raw, and Steve feels the softness of his belly pressing against his own body, and that’s when he finally goes over the edge, hips moving uncontrollably, the sharp near-anguish of his orgasm rippling through him. Bucky’s not far behind; Steve feels the sudden rush of wet heat against his hip, and moans as his body spasms in time with Bucky’s. 

It’s hard to tell how much time passes, they’re staring into one another’s eyes, panting, hands caressing in tentative little strokes, like the short, steady pats that calm horses. 

And that’s when they hear the knock at the door.

Bucky laughs, breathy and disbelieving. “We expecting company?”

The only words that leap to Steve’s mind are expletives, so he bites everything back and rolls off the bed, his cock still throbbing. He looks down at his sweats, which are completely unacceptable, and hurries to the bathroom, plucks the bathrobe off its hook, and wraps it around himself as he darts over to the door.

“Yeah?” He calls, checking the peephole. He sees nobody and, out of habit, sidles to the edge of the doorframe.

“Housekeeping,” says a laconic American-sounding voice.

“Can it wait until we’ve gotten dressed?”

“Well then how about room service?”

“Is that-?” Bucky asks, sitting up.

Steve nods tersely, waving at Bucky to get under the covers, as he opens the door to allow Natasha Romanov to enter the room.

__________

“Well, this is cozy,” she says, ambling into the room and looking around at the quaint wallpaper and antique light fixtures. Her body language suggests she’s talking about the decor, but her tone implies something else entirely.

“They were short on rooms,” Steve says, trying not to sound defensive, although that is exactly how he’s feeling. Natasha glances over at the bed. “Hey, Bucky,” she says.

“Agent Romanov.”

“Can we help you?” Steve asks, his voice betraying his irritation.

She turns, one graceful russet brow lifted, and smiles. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

Steve instantly blushes and opens his mouth to say something, probably something at least a little stupid - Natasha has that effect on him - but Bucky intervenes.

“Sleep,” he says, yawning and stretching. “And you’re currently standing between me and a cup of coffee.”

“Can’t have that,” she says, withdrawing a slim envelope from an inside pocket of her fashionable leather jacket. “Fury heard you were headed to Germany. I’d have thought you’d had enough of the place, but...nice of you two to let bygones be bygones.”

“I’ve heard they’ve got someone else in charge now,” Steve says wryly. 

“A very worldly perspective.” 

“I’ve had a while to work on it.”

“And it shows.”

“Ahem,” says Bucky. “You were going to tell us why you’re here?”

“Right. Fury sent this for you. I assume he’d like you to deliver it while you’re in Munich.”

“Funny. Seems like he could’ve just asked you to do it, since he sent you all the way here.”

“He could,” she agreed. “I guess maybe he wanted to check in on you two, see how you’re doing.”

“Well, we’re fine,” Steve says. “He ordered us to take this vacation, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” she said. “But you know Fury.” She shrugs, as if the man were a mildly incorrigible child instead of a shadowy and frighteningly unpredictable covert operative. She steps a little closer to Steve, studying him carefully. “He likes to know what everyone’s getting up to.”

“Well, all we’re getting up to is tourism, so I guess he can rest easy.”

“Oh, I can see what you’ve been getting up to,” she says, raking him with an up-and-down look that lingers near the middle of his body. She reaches one slim hand out and pats Steve on the belly, suppressing a smile. “Nice seeing you, boys. Enjoy the rest of your vacation.” She winks as she slips back out the door.

Bucky and Steve both let out a breath, as if they’ve been holding it the whole time. “What the hell did that mean?” Steve asks, glancing down at himself. The bathrobe completely covers his stained sweatpants. 

“No idea,” Bucky says, heading for the bathroom. “Mind if I take the first shower?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, and moments later, the hot water is hissing and steam floats out from under the bathroom door. 

Steve steps in front of the mirror, slipping the bathrobe off his shoulders, and really looks at himself for the first time in weeks. 

“Oh my god,” he says, hands going automatically to his belly, because that’s what he sees, a belly, just past the point of being mere pudge, rounding out the front of his t-shirt. He turns sideways, and not only is it still there, it’s even more noticeable, sticking out several inches from where his abs used to be. He glances over at the hanging rack, where his uniform is hanging, and bites his lip, unsure. But he has to know.

He has no trouble sliding the trousers over his legs, but when he tries to pull the two halves of the fly together, they don’t even come close. He pulls the shirt on and tugs it across his chest. He manages the top three buttons, but the slim-cut shirt won’t fasten over his gut.

“Oh, god,” he says again, sinking back down onto the edge of the bed in defeat.

Bucky steps out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, sees Steve’s predicament, and tries to conceal a faint smile. “Ah,” he says. “Well, I guess you figured out what she was talking about.”

“This is a disgrace,” Steve says, gesturing at his belly, which curves outward toward his lap through the unfastened fly of his pants.

“It’s adorable,” Bucky says, sitting down next to Steve and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He rests a warm palm on the fullest part of it, slides it down the curve. “Let me show you just how adorable I think it is.”


	3. Holiday

The errand for Fury is straightforward but time-consuming, another small step toward getting Bucky incorporated into the Avengers hierarchy. It takes over a month, and Steve is relieved, because the thought of returning to regular duty in anything short of peak physical condition is, frankly, embarrassing. He thinks often of the barely-concealed amusement on Natasha’s face as she’d patted him on his belly back in Munich, and still blushes furiously, even at the memory. 

He hadn’t really put on all that much weight, but given that he typically walks around at around ten or twelve percent bodyfat, any additional poundage shows. During the brief mission, he and Bucky had returned to a somewhat more normal diet, leaving behind the excesses of their short vacation, and as a result, he’s more or less bounced back into superhero shape. And he’s glad of it, he really is, but…

Is it weird, he wonders, that he kind of misses his little vacation belly? That he misses Bucky’s even more? _Probably,_ he tells himself morosely. But it doesn’t change the facts - whenever he thinks of the sweet, enticing curve of Bucky’s full, round belly, he feels practically electrified. 

He tells himself _not_ to think about it, and he succeeds for the most part, although as recently as that morning, he’d dreamed about it. 

They’re supposed to await further instructions while staying with the U.S. Ambassador in Berlin, and the downtime, which isn’t really time off but isn’t exactly work, is getting to both of them. There’s a gym, but Steve knows his heart isn’t in his workouts right now, and Bucky seems to feel the same way.

“They call that phoning it in nowadays,” Steve tells him, as he watches Bucky abandon the bench press well before he’s exhausted the muscles of his chest and back. 

“Phoning it in,” Bucky says, wiping his brow with a towel and taking a drink of water. “If I could’ve, I would’ve. I’m feeling...I don’t know. Uninspired.”

“I know what you mean,” Steve agrees. They head together down the basement hallway toward the rooms where they’ve been staying. “Think maybe it’s the weather?”

Bucky shrugs, but after a few seconds, starts to nod. “That, and it’s getting dark so early now. I kind of want to…” 

“Not spend all the daylight hours in the gym?”

“Not spend _any_ hours in the gym,” Bucky says. His hand goes to his now nearly-flat belly and lingers. “And _god,_ I’m just starving, all the time. I got enough of that back in the 30s, you know?”

“We all had enough of it,” Steve says. The persistent abundance of food is one of the most amazing things about the 21st century. Modern approaches to farming go largely unnoticed in the Western countries where regularly-available food is now taken for granted, but to Steve and Bucky, it still seems like one of the biggest technological advances of the past seventy years.  
“You know it’s Thanksgiving tomorrow?”

“I know,” Bucky says, and he gets a faraway look on his face for a moment. Steve knows exactly what he’s thinking about, and smiles. 

“Mom was furious with us for spending so much on the oysters for the oyster dressing.”

“I’d never seen her mad like that before,” Bucky laughs. “But it was totally worth it; that and the hours we spent gathering hickory nuts for the suet pudding.”

“She always was a dab hand in the kitchen,” Steve acknowledges, thinking back to his mother, always trying to entice him to eat a little more, to build up his strength. “I was thinking of going to the dinner for the enlisted men at USAB. They’ve worked out some kind of fundraiser, you pay a per-plate fee. Every plate you eat sends two to a country where there are food shortages.”

Bucky pauses, a gleam in his eye. “You don’t say?”

“I _do_ say.”

“I bet between the two of us, we could feed a good number of people.”

“It would be unpatriotic of us _not_ to go.”

“Positively un-American.”

“It’s a date, then?”

“It’s a date.” They glance around quickly before sharing a brief kiss in the hallway. 

_________________

They arrive at the dining hall early, but there’s already a line. They stand in it, neither one of them in uniform, but they still attract attention. Steve ends up signing autographs for nearly thirty minutes until they’re finally seated, and Bucky is astonished to be asked for his own signature by several of the older kids and servicemen and women. 

“I feel like a total fraud,” he mutters to Steve under his breath, as he finishes his last signature and they make their way to their table.

“Welcome to the club,” Steve replies, but he never stops smiling until they’re seated, and he’s sure nobody’s looking. “But if it helps boost morale, I’ll sign autographs until hell freezes over,” he says. “It’s easy to forget that everyone here signed up to put their life on the line. Just because they happen to be in a friendly country now, doesn’t mean they’ll stay here. I can spare a few autographs.”

“Such a do-gooder,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes, but Steve only smiles fondly, because he really _is_ a do-gooder, and that’s the exact thing that Bucky’s always loved about him, and Steve knows it.

Staff circulate among the tables, selling tickets, each good for a single plate of Thanksgiving dinner. When the serviceman comes by their table, Steve immediately requests ten tickets.

“Ten? So you’re buying for the two of you, then?” He asks, counting out tickets.

“No,” Bucky says. “I’ll take ten as well.”

The man’s eyes widen, but he counts out ten more tickets and hands them over. “It’s twenty dollars a ticket,” he says, almost apologetically, but Steve and Bucky both shell out the money without flinching.

“If you’d have told me back in ‘36 that I’d ever pay twenty clams for a single dinner plate, I’d have told you to go chase yourself,” Bucky half-whispers to Steve.

“If you’d have told me that I’d still be alive and buying dinner in 2015, I’d have told you to go chase yourself, but here we are.”

They line up with everyone else for the first round, which is served on the U.S. Army’s finest plastic dinner trays, but looks a little better than the standard Army fare. It’s roast turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, creamed corn, soft white dinner rolls, green bean casserole with fried onions, a large mound of cornbread stuffing, and a little slice of jellied cranberry sauce in the smallest tray pocket. At the end of the line, they’re handed a slice of sweet potato pie with whipped cream. 

Steve is glad, by the time they’re on their fifth tray, that he’s worn his most forgiving civilian clothes, loose-fitting and stretchy; they help to conceal his rapidly swelling belly when he heaves himself up to return for his sixth tray. Bucky is likewise attired, but since he’s looking for it, Steve can see the growing roundness tenting out the fabric of his shirt, especially when Bucky leans back after the seventh round and presses his hand against it, massaging delicately. 

Steve can’t help but look, but he does more than just look; he imagines. He imagines what Bucky’s belly will feel like when they finally get back to their rooms this evening, heavy and tight as a drum. He imagines what it would be like if they didn’t have to be constantly prepared to save the world, if neither of them had undergone the experiments that had changed their biologies forever. If Bucky could put on weight and keep it, what would it look like? Would it all go to his belly or would it pad him out everywhere at once? Steve suspects he’d carry most of it out front, just something about the way Bucky was put together. His belly would round and swell, the curve belling out under his pecs. He’d move differently, his gait slowing, stance widening to suit his heavier body; he’d have to lean backward a little to balance the weight of his belly; eventually, he’d have to sit with his legs a little apart just to accommodate it.

“Oh god,” Steve whispers under his breath, as he feels that last thought like a lightning bolt to his brain. 

“What is it?” Bucky asks, around the last bite of the last piece of pie.

“Nothing,” Steve mumbles, keeping his face pointed downward, at his food. “I’ll tell you later.”

It takes an agonizingly long time to get to “later,” but they do eventually make it, after being cheered and back-slapped out of the cantina and collapsing into the borrowed embassy car, which sinks beneath their combined weight. As soon as the door thunk closed, they both let out enormous breaths, letting their stomachs expand forward. Steve is surprised and embarrassed to feel the bottom of his stomach touch the tops of his thighs, but when he glances over at Bucky...well. 

“You’re huge,” he blurts, hand reaching out involuntarily to touch what his eyes can’t quite believe. 

“I know,” Bucky says, staring out at his exuberant girth, resting his hands on the round swell of his belly. “Oof,” he adds, hefting his overfull stomach out of the way so he can pop the top button of his jeans, allowing his stomach even more room in which to expand. He glances over at Steve and smiles. “You too,” he says, letting one hand caress the full round arc of Steve’s gut. “I guess we really overdid it.”

“Wasn’t that the point?” Steve asks softly. 

“Was it?” Bucky asks, then, laughing, rests his hand on his belly again. “Yeah, I guess it was. It really was.”

Steve rests his hands on the steering wheel but doesn’t start the car. He looks over at Bucky. “I really love you like this,” he says. “Not that - not that I don’t love you all the time, Buck, you know...or at least I think you do, anyway, that I love you all the time.”

“I know,” Bucky answers quietly. 

“Good.”

“But this?” Bucky asks, his hands making a faint shushing sound against his shirt as he rubs circles into his expansive gut. “Really?”

“Really,” Steve breathes, pulse pounding, mouth dry. “Oh, god, Bucky it’s almost too much, I…” he trails off, unsure of how to express himself. He places his hand back on top of the mound of Bucky’s belly, sure the full scope of his longing must somehow be transmitted just through the slightly trembling touch.

“I wish...” he says.

“Me too,” Bucky says.


	4. Freshman Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out I lied, I found a way to work Freshman Fifteen into it after all.

It’s been six months since he saw Steve, and Bucky can’t stop fidgeting. He sits down, stands up, straightens a framed sketch Steve sent last month, steps back, straightens it again. Sits down again. 

He’s up the instant he hears the sharp rap on the door, hurrying down the hall. He takes a deep breath, hesitates, closes his eyes, opens the door.

“Hey Buck,” Steve says, and there’s the matinee-idol smile ( _movie star smile,_ Bucky corrects himself, _that’s what they say now_ ), gleaming in the dim hall. Bucky's eyes travel over the acres of bronzed muscle, the whole shining package that is his oldest friend and- he still hasn’t quite gotten used to the idea - his _boyfriend._

“Hey,” Bucky says, and then they’re in each other’s arms, and all Bucky’s nervousness is forgotten.

“How long do you have?” he murmurs into Steve’s shoulder, and Steve squeezes him closer, inhaling deeply and humming contentedly. 

“A few weeks,” he says, pressing tickling little kisses to Bucky’s neck. “But if anything happens…”

“I know. The high cost of dating a superhero.” Bucky leans back and gestures for Steve to come inside. “I hope you haven’t eaten.”

Steve smiles and shakes his head. “Course I haven't. What’s the point of dating the best student at the best culinary institute in Switzerland if I can’t even get a home-cooked meal out of it?”

As Bucky moves efficiently around the kitchen, Steve sets the table, taking in the elegant furnishings of the well-appointed modern apartment. “This is nice,” he says. “When Fury said he could pull some strings, I was half expecting a room in an underground compound or something, not…” He gestures at the huge sweep of windows offering a stunning panoramic view of Lake Zurich. “Not _this._ It’s stunning.”

“It really is. I never get over it. I still can’t believe he did it, even after I...well, ‘quit’ doesn’t sound like the right word, but...yeah. Since I quit.”

“No hard feelings there. After what you’d been through.”

“Still.” 

“Well, he has his moments. I’m not sure if he was more afraid of what would happen if you left or what would happen if you stayed. I think he was pretty pleased with your choice of post-military employment.”

“Nothing says ‘definitely not joining an opposing black ops paramilitary organization’ like a request to attend cooking school,” Bucky says, handing Steve a glass of wine. “ _Proscht._ ”

“ _Zum wohl_.” They clink glasses and each take a long sip, eyes locked.

“You don’t miss it then?” Steve asks.

“Not even a little,” Bucky answers.

“You look great.”

“Uh, oh. Thanks,” Bucky says, breaking the eye contact at last. It’s been long enough to allow a little doubt to bloom. Now, with Steve snapped back into shape thanks to a return to his usual vigorous training regimen, he feels unsure. 

“No, I mean...you look _great._ ” Steve rests his hands on Bucky’s hips, then slides them up the plump curves of his sides, over his soft chest, and over his full, round belly. His touch sends a little frisson of excitement chittering up and down Bucky’s spine. “How much time do we have before dinner’s ready?” Steve asks, and there’s a catch in his voice, his eyes are dark, and Bucky feels his pulse rush from a gentle canter to a brisk trot.

“How much do you think we’ll need?” Bucky asks, but Steve’s hands are already sliding up over his sweater, tracing the plump shape beneath, warm and a little rough. Bucky can’t help it, it’s been so long since they’ve been together, he has to stifle a moan of pleasure, closes his eyes as Steve leans in to kiss him again. A rush of heat surges between his legs.

He feels his belly give as Steve steps into the kiss, holding him tighter, and can’t stop himself from thinking of how thick and hard Steve’s chest feels against his, how thick and hard every part of him feels, including the thick, hard length of cock he feels against his hip. 

“God, Bucky,” Steve whispers into his neck, his hands caressing and teasing everywhere. “God, you’re so gorgeous like this.”

“Like what?” Bucky asks, and he knows, of course he does, but he wants to hear Steve say it, wants to hear him describe what he sees. He feels Steve’s smile against the sensitive skin of his neck.

Steve glances over his shoulder at the hall, then back at Bucky, who gazes back steadily, eyebrows raised. Steve steps backward, pulling Bucky after him, and as they move slowly in the direction of the bedroom, Steve lifts the sweater up and over Bucky’s head, tousling his hair, and stops to lavish kisses over his chest and belly. “Like this, so much bigger,” his hand slips down over the expanse of Bucky’s midsection, eyes alight with appreciation. “God, you must have put on...what, like thirty pounds?”

“At least,” Bucky says, one hand floating to his middle. 

“And I was just hoping for the freshman fifteen,” Steve whispers, dropping to his knees so he can feather kisses from Bucky’s navel down to his somewhat overtaxed waistband. “So much better than I dared to hope. How’d you even do it?” 

“I never got your fairy godmother serum,” Bucky says. “The Soviet method was a bit more barbaric. No magic potion to overcome; I just had to eat more and exercise less.”

"Mmm. I like how this feels, how soft it is, how it moves when you move. It's so round and perfect, honest to god, Buck, just the _perfect_ shape."

Bucky's breath is coming faster now, Steve's hands touching him in increasingly delicious places, his hands on Steve's solid shoulders.

Steve stops, hands spanning the width of Bucky’s stomach, and rises slowly to his feet, resuming his backward momentum, pulling Bucky after him. “Hurry,” he says. “Bucky, please, hurry.”


	5. Size Differences/Comparison

They end up eating in bed, which is mildly inconvenient, since they’re having fondue, but Bucky brings the pot and the skewers into the bedroom and they eat while catching up, wrapped in the soft white sheets. 

Steve snuggles up under Bucky’s arm and rests a hand on his stomach, smoothing the sheet over it, pressing one ear against the curve. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a kink for listening to me digest things, too,” Bucky half-laughs, but Steve just kisses him and raises his eyebrows suggestively. “I think I’ve just got a kink for you,” he says. “Even back in the day.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. But I don’t think I’d have necessarily figured that out if it hadn’t been for you slamming into every single turn-on like a 16-pound ball at the duckpin alley.”

“Two hundred and twenty-pound ball,” Bucky corrects him, around a mouthful of bread and cheese.

“Really?” Steve leans back, eyeing his belly assessingly, peeling the sheet away to get a better look. Bucky leans back, letting the curve of his gut expand to its impressive fullest.

“Really,” Bucky rests a hand on his belly, but his eyes are on Steve. “You’re in amazing shape. Am I just used to looking at myself, or have you been doing something different?”

“Aw, they got this new trainer, Natasha swears by him, Russian kettlebells. You don’t even want to know.” But Bucky can’t stop looking at the little ridges and striations in the lean, toned flesh, the way the muscles bunch and smooth under Steve’s taut, slightly tanned skin.

“I love how different we look,” Bucky says. “I was a little sad, when you decided to stay -”

“I had to, Buck. I can’t just turn my back on -”

“I know,” Bucky says, holding up a hand. “I agree with you. Great power, great responsibility. You’ll get no argument from me. You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t like this. But it was nice, having you to myself for a little while. Watching you get a little soft,” he pokes Steve’s rock-hard abs. “I thought it would be weird, once you went back to work, but…” he turns on his side, letting his rounded paunch press up against Steve’s flat middle. “I like this. The contrast.”

“I like it, too,” Steve says, his hips already moving against Bucky’s, their cocks trapped between Bucky’s soft pudge and his firm muscle. “You look even bigger after dinner, all full and tight like this,” the fingers of one hand sink gently into a love handle, as the other spreads open across his ass, pulling him up harder into the next thrust. “Can’t help but think… _ah_...how much bigger you’ll get…love that there’s so much for me to touch.”

“If I go on like this,” Bucky manages hoarsely, “I’ll be huge. Remember last year? Thanksgiving? Never…been so full in my life.”

“Can’t wait,” Steve gasps into Bucky’s ear.


	6. Body Worship

The cogwheel railway car rounds a bend of the sheer rock face and suddenly, a vertiginous expanse of crisp alpine air is the only thing separating them from the picturesque city of Lucerne. The other passengers gasp, and the car fills with the simulated shutter-snap sound of iPhones capturing a digital version of the beautiful view. Steve barely notices. The little boy in the seat across from them keeps leaning over, trying to get a good look under Steve’s baseball cap. He pulls the brim a little lower and turns toward the window, keeping his eyes resolutely fixed on the spangling surface of Lake Lucerne, and his mind off his boyfriend’s gorgeous presence in the seat next to him. Well, he tries, anyway.

The thing is, it’s almost impossible. Bucky’s thigh is pressed right up against his, his shoulder brushing Steve’s as the train sways up toward the top of Mount Pilatus, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see the substantial form of Bucky’s belly resting comfortably on his lap, the lower curve shown off to particular advantage by the ever-so-slightly too tight oxford shirt Bucky is wearing. 

He’s also wearing a hoodie under a light down parka, both items of outerwear just a little too small, tugged tight across his shoulders, leading Steve to wonder, at various times throughout the day, whether either of them could even close over Bucky’s somewhat fuller figure. He’s almost certain that the stretchy hoodie would zip, just barely, over that orbic shape, but the snaps of the more rigid parka...no way. They probably wouldn’t even meet in the middle.

He wants to find out. Wants to watch Bucky struggle to join the two halves of the hoodie, wants to watch the fabric stretch taut over the fullest, roundest part of him, wants to watch the teeth of the zipper gape as the garment struggles to contain the ample flesh…

 _God._ He needs to get off this train. _Baseball,_ he thinks. _Ice baths. Barbed wire. Tony Stark._

He glances down at his watch. Only fifteen minutes have passed. The train is supposed to complete a one-way trip in thirty minutes. It’s already been the longest half hour of Steve’s entire life. He stares at lush alpine meadows dotted with wildflowers, sparkling mountain streams trickling over geologically interesting rock faces, and doesn’t really see any of it.

The little boy starts fidgeting again, struggling against his mother’s restraining hand, now nearly horizontal on the seat, peering up into Steve’s face. Bucky, seeing the little boy’s antics, shifts in his seat, blocking the kid’s view. For an instant, Steve thinks he’s going to kiss him, but Bucky just leans close and whispers, “Are you afraid the kid’s working for the other side?”

Steve stares at him, confused. “What?”

“You’re practically climbing out of your skin to avoid him,” Bucky says. “What’s up?”

“I just...don’t want to be recognized. Not here.” 

“Oh,” Bucky says, sitting back in his seat. “Okay.”

Steve looks at him, wondering if he’s somehow said the wrong thing, but Bucky just gives him a half-smile and turns to look out the window again, and the woman in the other seat produces a handheld video game, hijacking the boy’s attention for the remainder of the ride. 

They debark near the summit of the mountain, passing a tour group on their way to the restaurant and bar situated for optimal views on the high terrace. The tour guide rattles off a practiced recital of a medieval legend involving dragons and mysterious gemstones. Steve keeps his head down, lashes lowered, constantly aware of Bucky by his side, of the heat of his body, radiating from him in the cool, thin air. Their hands brush as they walk, their knees bump at the Steinbock Bar as they sip hot chocolate and eat a variety of hot appetizers.

“It’s supposed to be romantic,” Bucky says, and he sounds miserable. He’s finished everything on the appetizer tray, and waves to the waiter, signalling for another round. 

“It is,” Steve says automatically, and Bucky gives him a long, patient look. “I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m distracted.”

“You don’t want to be seen with me,” Bucky says.

“No, of course not,” Steve agrees, and in the following second, as Bucky flinches from this unintentional verbal blow, Steve reaches for him, taking his good hand before he can stand up to leave. “Oh, for Pete’s sake Buck, that’s not what I meant.” 

The waiter arrives with another tray, this one laden with bite-sized pizzas, croquettes, and generous slabs of crusty bread slathered with aioli and covered in toasted cheese. 

Bucky stares at the tray and heaves a sigh. “If that’s not what you meant, then why did you say it?”

Steve drives his hands through his hair as Bucky pops a croquette in his mouth and stares at him expectantly, chewing. “I _do_ want to be seen with you. I want to be with you all the time, it’s just…” he glances at the waiter in irritation as he stops by again, setting two ramekins of condiments on the table.

“I get it, Steve. Captain America can’t be gay. He can’t have a fat boyfriend. You’re a role model. It’s fine, I understand.”

“It’s not that,” Steve says, voice hushed, but he can’t help it, he’s still glancing around the room warily, and Bucky sees him, eyes widening in frustrated, hurt dismay. 

“Are you afraid I’ll make a scene?” Steve can imagine this line being delivered in a histrionic fit by an actress in a romantic movie; but Bucky is calm, reasonable, and terribly wounded. “If you didn’t want to go out, you should have just said. I’d have-”

He doesn’t finish, because Steve does the only thing he can think of to simultaneously end the argument and shut Bucky up; he leans across the table, catches his face between his hands and kisses him. He kisses him so hard their teeth clack together, and at first Bucky tries to pull away, but Steve just tugs him closer, opening his mouth against Bucky’s and swiping gently across his lips with his tongue, and Bucky slowly gives in to it, melting into the kiss with a pleasurable hum. 

They finally break apart, but Steve takes Bucky’s hand, kisses it, and holds it in plain view on the table. “Okay?” Steve says. “It’s _not_ that. You think people don’t need gay role models, fat role models, or fat, gay role models? Of course they do. And you know me better than that. Or I thought you did.”

“Then why? Why have you been so fidgety, looking at your watch, scoping out every place we go, hiding your face from little kids?”

“Because you want out,” Steve says levelly. “You want to live a normal life, no more paramilitary organizations, no more death squads or rebel militias or secret societies, none of it. I want you to have that. But if it gets around that you and I are together...that’s over. Anyone who wants to get to me will come after you. That’s all. I should’ve thought of it before, but it wasn’t until the kid on the train recognized me that it really hit home.”

“Oh,” Bucky says. “Well, if it comes down to it, I can handle myself, you know.”

“I know. I just don’t want you to _have_ to.”

“And you just did a great job of blowing our cover. If we ever had a cover,” Bucky says. “I think we just got everyone’s attention.”

It’s true; there had been several cooed “Awws,” appalled gasps, and throat clearings in the airy bar during their kiss. Steve smiles and shrugs. “I don’t think anyone recognized me here.” 

They’re quiet for a long moment, and Steve regretfully releases Bucky’s hand. “Wanna get out of here?” he asks. “There’s a cable car back to town in five minutes, we can make it if we hurry.” Although, thinking of the hours-long trip back down the mountain, the ferry trip back across the lake, the drive back to Zurich, Steve feels desperately impatient. 

Bucky takes a bite of bruschetta and chews thoughtfully for a moment, then gives Steve a provocative up-and-down glance. “They have rooms here, you know. It’s a hotel.”

____

“I can’t believe you thought I didn’t want to be seen with you in public,” Steve says, as soon as the door closes behind them. “If you only knew what I was thinking about during that train ride.” 

“Maybe you’d better tell me,” Bucky says, pulling him close and kissing him lightly on the lips. Steve immediately pulls him up hard against his rigid body, returning the kiss with passionate interest, heart thumping fast, breath harsh and loud in the quiet room. He wants to tell Bucky how perfectly lovely he is, how much his growing body arouses him, but the words stick in his throat, too raw to be expressed, so he decides to show him instead.

He kisses Bucky’s softening jawline, down his neck, hands spanning his broad, soft chest, hesitating before sinking lower, out along the top of his belly, warm and firm beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. He groans into Bucky’s neck, feeling the gentle give of his body beneath his touch. It’s maddening, how much he wants him, and he starts moving them backward, one eye open to guide them back toward the large bed in the center of the suite.

Steve shoves him back onto the bed, dropping to his knees in front of him, tugging the shirt free of Bucky’s jeans and popping the top button, watching as his generous belly shifts forward into the extra space, the zipper loosening under its weight. Steve rests his hands reverently on the swell, sinking his fingers into the softness.

“God, I love this,” he says. “You...you have no idea what you do to me, Bucky. No idea.”

“Oh, I think I have some idea,” Bucky says, smoothing Steve’s hair fondly. 

“No, I mean...really, you’re just...wow.” He wishes he could explain it better, how the extra flesh padding out Bucky’s formerly slim frame makes him feel half-crazy with desire, how it makes Bucky look simultaneously softer and more masculine, his belly broad and round, his shoulders wide, his intact forearm thick with muscle. At first glance, it looks like almost all the extra weight has gone to Bucky’s midsection, but it hasn’t; the rest of him has thickened, growing wide and strong, a firm base to support the substantial weight of his belly.

The shirt is rucked partway up Bucky’s gut, stretching tight around the widest part, and Steve kisses the exposed underside before unfastening the buttons of the shirt, one by one, planting little kisses on each newly exposed bit of skin, starting at the top, lingering just below his sternum, where his belly arcs out from his chest, following the thin line of dark hair below his navel, licking and biting at the softness, raising goosebumps, prompting little sounds of enjoyment from Bucky.

He sits back on his heels and runs his hands along the plump insides of Bucky’s legs to the place where his belly rests almost, but not quite, on top of his thighs. He’s not entirely sure, but he thinks Bucky’s put on a few more pounds in the last two weeks; he’s just that tiny bit bigger, his paunch slightly more prominent. He can feel himself turning red, the sight is so arousing, and he opens his mouth to try to explain how much he loves the way Bucky’s perfect, round belly sits justs so; how he especially likes it after a big meal, when fullness makes it sink lower, cradled by his spread thighs. But all he manages is a muttered, broken “Perfect.” He can feel Bucky’s heartbeat in the pulse of his lower belly, and he can’t quite hold back the whimper of lust it stirs. 

He shoves at the waistband of Bucky’s jeans, and Bucky sucks in to unfasten the rest of his fly, leaning back to shove the jeans down around his hips. Steve watches as he lets his breath out and his belly surges forward over the elastic of his boxers, filling like a water balloon, full and fat, and a muscle in his jaw starts to twitch with the effort of restraint. He shoves the underwear out of the way and frees Bucky’s cock, caressing its hard length, rubbing his thumb over the tip, and finally taking it into his mouth with a soft moan, trying to express everything he hadn’t been able to voice in the movement of his lips and tongue.

Bucky gasps, head dropping back, hips canting forward. Steve rests one hand on the side of his belly, rubbing slow, wide circles against the soft flesh, the slight friction of his own jeans enough to arouse him but not quite enough to tip him over the edge. Bucky’s hands rest on his shoulders, fingers tightening as he works, one hand warm and human, the other cool and hard. Steve slips his free hand between Bucky’s legs and fondles him gently, probes the entrance of his body, slips his forefinger a little way inside

“Oh - _ah_ \- sweet Jesus,” Bucky gasps, falling back on his forearms, undone by the pleasure Steve is inflicting on him. Another moan rumbles through Steve’s chest and he slips his hands under Bucky’s hips, gripping him tight, the top of his head gently bumping against the underside of his gut, and it takes all his self control to keep up his rhythmic motion, to see Bucky through to the finish, instead of leaping on top of him and grinding himself against Bucky’s soft body in an attempt to relieve the red-hot agony of his pleading erection.

Bucky finally comes with a hoarse cry, and Steve releases him, resting his head on the Bucky’s stomach, holding him tight, feeling the last remnant tremors of his orgasm trilling through him, his own lust coalescing in throbbing anguish betweeen his legs.

Moments later, Bucky drags Steve partway up the mattress, tearing at his fly. Steve’s cock springs free and Bucky’s mouth slides down around him in a single smooth motion, and Steve cries out with the sheer ecstasy of it, has to hold his breath and count to keep from coming at the very instant of contact. 

“Oh _god,_ ” Steve murmurs, breath hissing between his teeth as Bucky works him up and down, tongue sliding along the underside of his cock in firm strokes, the ache of holding back making him wince and moan shamelessly, hands in Bucky’s hair. “You’re so beautiful,” he rasps, “God, _dammit,_ you’re...you...this is…” He loses his grip completely for several long seconds as his body refuses any further restraint and his orgasm rushes through him, wringing him out in a rough cadence of spasming pulses, leaving him feeling loose and raw and deliciously, magnificently spent.

He folds Bucky into his arms, chest heaving, and presses a kiss to his tousled hair. Bucky snuggles closer, soft belly squishing into Steve’s side, and rests his head on his boyfriend’s chest. 

“Sorry if I derailed your plans,” Steve says, eventually. “We don’t have to stay overnight if you need to get back.”

Bucky looks at him, plainly amused. “I didn’t really have plans, I just wanted to be with you. We’re fine, besides…”

“Hmm?”

“I’m pretty sure this place has room service. And I’m _starving._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> The full list is here: http://iwritetheweirdstuff.tumblr.com/post/131390268767/20-days-of-chub-kink


End file.
